The Keeper

‘No problem,’ said Donnelly.

They were interrupted by Sean’s phone ringing. He held a hand up to prompt silence and ask Donnelly to stay while he took the call.

It was DS Roddis from the dedicated Murder Investigation Forensic Team. He greeted Sean in his usual manner, avoiding any reference to rank.

‘Mr Corrigan, good morning.’

‘Sergeant Roddis. You have something for me?’

‘I’m at the Russell home now,’ he said. ‘We’re concentrating our examination on the hallway and front door, as you requested.’

‘Good,’ Sean answered. ‘Anything?’

‘It would appear so …’ Sean’s heart rate began to accelerate with anticipation. ‘Unfortunately, the scene hasn’t been preserved as I would have liked, but at least whoever took her didn’t make any attempt to clean up after him. There’s no indication that he wiped any surfaces, nothing’s been polished or scrubbed. And when we got down low to the wooden floor we found a full palm print with fingers attached. We’ve compared it to John Russell’s. It’s not his and it’s too big to be Mrs Russell’s.’

‘Can you lift it off the floor without damaging it?’ Sean asked, a picture forming in his mind of the man who took Louise Russell kneeling next to her prostrate body, his hand on the floor to balance himself, fingers spread to take his weight … while he did what to her?

‘We’ve already lifted it,’ Roddis said gleefully.

‘Is it good enough to get a match from?’

‘If he’s in the system, we’ll be able to get a match. I’m having it sent straight to Fingerprints.’

Sean was certain whoever took Louise Russell was a previous offender. It wouldn’t be anything as big as this, but there’d be something in his past. The question was, had he been convicted? If not, his prints wouldn’t be on file.

‘There’s another thing,’ Roddis continued. ‘The traces are very faint, but on the floor, close to where we found the print, there seems to be evidence of a non-typical chemical. We’ve swabbed it for the lab, but my first guess would be chloroform.’

Another piece of the film playing in Sean’s head became clearer: the man kneeling next to her, pouring chloroform on to material, placing it over her mouth. Sean saw bindings too, being wrapped around her hands, but not her feet – he would have needed her to walk. He blinked the images away and spoke into the receiver. ‘OK, thanks. Let me know as soon as you have more.’

Beckoning for Donnelly to follow him, he got up and went through into the main incident room where his team of detectives were busying themselves at their desks.

‘Listen up, everyone,’ Sean shouted across the room. ‘Forensics have just confirmed there are indications that Louise Russell was abducted from her home by an unknown male. If this isn’t already a murder case it soon will be unless we can find her. I know this is different from our usual, but we are now her only hope, so I want you to give it everything. Chase down every lead, every piece of information and intelligence we have, no matter how irrelevant it looks. Let’s find her before it’s too late.’ Sean looked around the room at the faces of his team. The message seemed to have got through.

‘Just for once,’ Donnelly said, ‘I hope you’re wrong.’

‘I’m not,’ Sean told him. ‘But what I can’t be sure of is how long we’ve got. How long before he tires of his new plaything? And after he throws her out with the rubbish, what then for our man? Somebody else? Will he take another?’

‘You tell me,’ Donnelly answered.

‘I don’t know,’ Sean replied. ‘Not yet anyway.’

Mid-morning Thursday and Thomas Keller should have been at work, but his supervisor had agreed to let him have a few hours off so long as he made the time up in the afternoon. As he walked across the cluttered courtyard from his cottage towards the metal door that led to the cellar his excitement and nervousness grew in equal measure. He picked his way through the old tyres and oil drums that littered his land, land that was dotted with old, disused outhouses and corrugated-iron barns that once housed battery chickens and God knows what else. Even the cottage he lived in was hideous, made of large grey breezeblocks sometime in the sixties and never painted.

He wore his usual loose-fitting tracksuit, the stun-gun pushed into one pocket bouncing awkwardly off his hip as he walked, the keys in his other pocket prone to becoming entangled in stray threads from the fraying seams. This morning he also carried a breakfast tray and a holdall thrown over his shoulder.

On reaching the heavy metal-clad door that led to the cellar below he carefully placed the tray on the floor. Cursing himself for not having moved one of the old oil drums to the door so he could use it as a temporary table, he resolved to do it later, after he’d taken Sam her breakfast.

As he unlocked the oversized padlock that held the door secure he felt his heart begin to race with anticipation and anxiety. He’d barely been able to contain himself during the night, barely been able to keep himself from sneaking in to see her, even if it was just to watch her sleep, to curl up on the other side of the wire next to her and listen to her breathing. But he knew he should leave her alone and let her rest. Now that he was only seconds away from seeing her, the longing to be with her, be with her the way he knew she wanted him to be, was almost overwhelming. He practised his breathing like the doctors had shown him – breathing was the key to being able to control his actions, his temper, his desires.

He pulled the big door back slowly, allowing the light to flood into the cellar, and stood at the entrance, head cocked to one side, listening for any noises that might drift up from the darkness below. After a few minutes, having heard nothing, he picked up the tray and began to move stealthily down the stone stairs, still listening. If he heard anything that alarmed him he would drop the tray and run back to the light, slam the door shut and lock it for ever, never returning to the cellar no matter what.

At the bottom of the stairs he craned his head around the corner of the wall that hid the staircase from the rest of the room and peered into the gloom, allowing his vision time to adjust to the poor light, searching for any sign of change, anything that should make him run. After a few seconds he could clearly make out the two figures cowering in their cages, both sitting with their knees pulled up to their chins, arms wrapped around their legs, Karen in her filthy underwear, Louise naked but covered by the duvet he’d given her.

Finally he stepped into the cellar, their dungeon, all his concentration on Louise, as if Karen wasn’t there any more. ‘Did you sleep OK, Sam? I’ve brought you some breakfast.’ He lifted the tray a little so she could see. ‘You’ll probably want to get cleaned up first though, eh?’

Placing the tray on the makeshift table behind the old hospital screen, he tugged the cord, the bright bulb flooding the cellar with harsh white light. Louise squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the onslaught, tears seeping out from her eyelids as he pulled the stun-gun and key from his trousers and moved slowly towards her cage, careful not to alarm her by moving too fast like before. He unlocked the cage and allowed the door to swing open, his head ducking inside. Seeing her eyes focused on the stun-gun in his hand, his own eyes were drawn to it.

‘I do trust you, Sam, you need to know that, but they could still try to keep us apart. If they do, I’ll need this to protect you. You do understand?’

She nodded a frightened yes, her eyes wide with fear. He thought she looked like a kitten waiting to be plucked from its mother’s side, and it made him feel good, made him feel strong, wanted, needed and in control. He backed away from the entrance to allow her to emerge and watched as she shuffled forward, bent double, clinging to the duvet that hid her nakedness. He knew what she was hiding, remembering the first day he’d brought her here, when he’d taken her clothes, the clothes they’d made her wear. Excitement coursed through him, his penis swelling as the blood rushed into it, making it uncomfortable and obvious under his tracksuit. The memory of seeing, of touching her soft, warm, slightly olive skin was almost too much for him to bear. He closed his eyes and tried to keep control, but the image of her round breasts, dark circles at their centre, and the soft pubic hair almost entirely covering her womanhood, burnt itself into his mind. The need to be with her here and now was so strong it was threatening to overtake him. He knew she wanted him too, wanted him as her lover, but first he needed to show her that he respected her. When they were finally together it would be so much better because they had waited.

She disappeared behind the screen, becoming a shapeless shadow with a silhouette of a human head. ‘There should be plenty of hot water,’ he managed to say through his pain, the need to release growing ever stronger, ‘and the towel should still be there.’ He heard the sound of running water and waited, knowing what was coming, until at last the duvet slipped from her shoulders to the floor, the perfection of her silhouette standing so clearly in front of him now, the shape of her back, the curves of her hips and buttocks, her beautiful breasts, the points of her nipples, her hands running over her body, touching it as he so desperately wanted to, her shadow a template on to which he projected the memory of her nakedness. He realized his mouth was hanging open and emitting an ugly guttural moaning he hoped she hadn’t heard above the running water. The sound of water ceased as he watched her hurriedly dry herself and pull the duvet tightly around her body. ‘Don’t forget the tray,’ he rasped through his dry mouth. ‘You must eat. You’ll need your strength.’

She appeared from behind the screen, looking from the floor to him and back again, heading for her cage, speeding up as she passed him, glancing at the stun-gun in his hand, ducking obediently back inside the safe place he’d made for her. He waited until she’d settled, watching her examining the items on the tray: cereal, milk, some fruit. Yes, he thought to himself – she was becoming as he wanted her to be, as he needed her to be. He eased the cage door shut and replaced the lock, all the time watching her in wide-eyed excitement and anticipation of the moment when he would be with her, as it had always been meant to be.

Needing release, to untie the knot in his guts, to stop the throbbing in his head, the pain in his groin, he looked across at Karen Green. He was disgusted by her, yet drawn to her, drawn to the odour leaking from her cage. Slowly he moved towards her, his face ugly and threatening, his uneven stained teeth bared. Sensing danger, she tried to escape his approach, but all directions led to cold wire.

‘You disgusting whore,’ he accused her, his voice quiet, but full of hateful intent. ‘You’ve pissed yourself. Do you want me to punish you? Do you?’ shouting now.

‘No, please,’ she begged him. ‘I couldn’t help it. Please, I tried not to. I knew it would make you angry, please.’

His teeth clenched together in rage, the words squeezing through them, each one shouted with a pause between to emphasize his fury as he edged closer to his desperately needed release. ‘If … you … knew … it … would … make … me … angry … then … why … the … fuck … did … you … do … it?’

‘I tried so hard not to,’ Karen pleaded, bright tears making clean stains down her increasingly filthy face, her mouth round as if trapped in a scream, her eyes wild with panic as he approached.

He opened a hatch in the side of the cage that was just big enough for a human arm to fit. ‘Put your arm through the hole,’ he demanded.

‘No,’ she sobbed.

‘Put your arm through the fucking hole or you know what’ll happen.’

‘I can’t,’ Karen gasped between terrible childlike sobs. ‘I can’t.’

‘Put your arm through the fucking hole!’ His scream intensified, making both women jump in fright.

Slowly Karen inched her way across the cage and slid her arm through the gate, looking away, knowing pain would soon come. He leapt forward and stabbed the stun-gun into her exposed flesh, sending her flying through the air to the rear of the cage where she crashed into the wire and fell on to her side.

Then he waited. Waited until the convulsions became little more than twitches. Finally he darted to the cage door, dropping the key in his rush to unlock it, fumbling on the floor in a panic to locate it, giggling when he did. The lock undone, he jerked the door open in a desperate rush to reach her before she fully recovered.

The desire was overtaking him, everything beginning to feel dreamlike, as if he had left his body and was watching someone else in the cage with her, someone else rolling her on to her stomach, tearing at her flimsy underwear, pulling himself free and searching for her, thrusting and missing, thrusting again, searching for a warm opening to push himself into her, until finally, when he was so close to releasing the demons that pounded inside of him, he felt himself enter her, the feeling of being inside her making his eyes roll back with excruciating pleasure like he’d never been able to feel before – before he started taking them. In the midst of his ecstasy he wondered if the others would be as good as this, his first.

He rutted like a wild animal, almost unaware of the human being lying underneath him, crying in pain, humiliated and desolate, while he forced himself on her, grunting with absolute pleasure, the warm flesh around his sex driving him to push harder and deeper until the release rushed free from his body and into her. He pushed himself as deeply as he could inside her as the release began to fade, at last allowing his body to relax, bringing him back to the world and the realization of what he had done, shame attempting to wash him clean of his terrible sin.

Keller looked down at the sobbing creature pinned underneath him, his erection fading fast. He pulled himself out of her and tugged his trousers up, already backing out of the cage, unable to look at her. His eyes were immediately drawn to Louise, looking on in horror.

Pointing at the figure discarded on the floor of the other cage, he protested, ‘She made me do it, Sam. She always makes me do it. She knows how to trick me. She’s one of them. That’s how I knew she wasn’t really you, because of the things she makes me do to her. You would never make me do those things.’

Slamming the door to Karen’s cage shut, he snapped the lock back into place then stood clinging to the wire mesh, fighting back the tears that tried to escape from his red eyes, self-loathing and hatred tearing away the ecstasy he’d felt only moments earlier. He scrunched his eyes tightly together, shame giving way to an anger that without warning swept through his being like a raging fire ripping through a bone-dry forest. He straightened, his body frozen with tension as he released his fury, screaming ‘I hate you!’ into the room.

Then he turned and ran sobbing from the cellar, up the stairs and into the daylight, cursing his lack of control, his weakness, the fact they had seen his weakness. Humiliation kept his legs pumping as he ran across the derelict courtyard, bouncing off oil drums, tripping on old tyres until he reached his dilapidated cottage and fell through the door, clutching his chest, desperate for his burning lungs to fill with air, to slow his heart and stop the throbbing pain in his head.

Collapsed on the floor of his neglected kitchen, he waited, staring at the ceiling, as images from his childhood taunted him, joined by other, more recent images of torment. But he didn’t try to push them away. Instead he embraced them like a welcome dream, and gradually the ugly images calmed him, slowed the torrents of his mind and body until finally he was in control again.

Realizing he was lying on the kitchen floor, he sprang to his feet, confused and distrustful of how he came to be there. The memories of what had happened in the cellar came seeping back, and with them his anger, but it was controllable now. He could turn this weakness into his strength, but in order to do that she needed to be taught a lesson. He would have to show the whore he knew what she was.

Keller made his way to the shed attached to the side of the cottage and pulled the unlocked door open. Undaunted by the disorganized chaos that confronted him, he began to scoop armfuls of items from their shelves, kicking the things that landed on the floor out of his way until he found what he was looking for: a bag of litter and a tray he’d bought months ago when he was trying to domesticate one of the feral cats that patrolled his land. He paused for a second, the memory of the ungrateful cat pricking his thoughts. It had got what it deserved, but at least he’d given it a proper burial, in one of the few green and picturesque spots on his land, under the sole willow tree that shaded the back of his cottage. He shook the memory away and examined the items he held.

Satisfied that this would teach the whore who was in control, he set about filling the litter tray, then made his way back to the stairs that led to the cellar, taking care to avoid the obstacles that littered the way. Once inside, he raced down the stairs, abandoning caution now, revelling in his power when he saw them cowering in the corners of their cages. He saw the holdall he’d dropped on the floor earlier and the clothes inside. No matter. First he’d deal with the whore.

He unlocked the padlock to Karen Green’s cage and pulled the door open. This time there was no need to brandish the stun-gun; she wouldn’t dare cross him now. The terror in her eyes told him she knew it was no use trying to escape. He threw the tray of cat litter on to the floor of her cage. ‘When you need to piss, whore,’ he shouted, ‘you piss in there. You piss in there and you shit in there.’ He watched as she hugged herself, rocking rhythmically back and forth. Again he pointed at the tray. ‘In there – understand, whore?’

Neither waiting for an answer nor expecting one, he slammed her door closed and carefully replaced the padlock. Then he crossed the cellar to retrieve the holdall, a smile changing the shape of his face as he pulled the clean and pressed clothes from within: a sky-blue blouse, grey knee-length pencil skirt, a cream V-neck sweater and white underwear. Next he removed two bottles: Elemis body lotion and Tom Ford Black Orchid Eau de Parfum.

‘This is for you, Sam,’ he told Louise. ‘Your own clothes, not the ones they made you wear. These are your own. And look – your favourite perfume and lotion. Use the lotion before you dress. Understand?’ Louise nodded that she did. ‘Put the perfume on after,’ he added. ‘Understand?’ She nodded again. He moved to the side of her cage and opened the hatch just wide enough to fit the items through once he’d rolled them into a single package. ‘Take them,’ he demanded, making her stretch out and snatch the package away, falling back into the corner of her cage.

‘I have to go to work now,’ he said. ‘But I promise I’ll come and see you when I get home. And don’t worry about her.’ He flicked his head towards the other cage. ‘She can’t hurt us any more. Nobody can. Nobody can keep us apart, Sam. They’ll never find us here. They’ll never take you away from me again. I swear it on my life, Sam, I’ll never let that happen.’

Mid-morning Thursday and Sean waited in the comfortable office of Harry Montieth, owner-manager of Graphic Solutions, the small business in Dartmouth Road, Forest Hill, where Louise Russell should have been at work. He heard Montieth knock on his own door before ushering in two women in their late twenties. They both looked scared and anxious; the darkening around their eyes a clear indication that neither had slept well since learning of their colleague’s disappearance. He liked them already because of their concern, their self-inflicted sharing of her pain.

‘This is Tina,’ said Montieth, fumbling for the best way to introduce them to a cop. ‘Tina Nuffield. And this is Gabby – Gabby Scott.’

‘Thank you,’ Sean acknowledged, examining his face for any signs of guilt or shame, searching the women’s faces for telltale indications of disgust. Having concluded there was nothing untoward going on between Montieth and his female employees, he set about questioning them. ‘Mr Montieth has told me that you are Louise’s closest friends.’

‘We’re good friends,’ said Gabby, brushing her short blonde hair behind her ear. Tina remained silent, chewing on her bottom lip, in danger of opening the partly healed cut she’d already made.

‘How good?’ Sean probed.

‘I’ve known her since she started here, must be nearly five years ago.’

‘And what about you, Tina?’ Sean wanted to drag her into the conversation.

‘About three years,’ she answered quietly. ‘That’s when I started here. Louise really looked after me, and Gabby too,’ she added, so as not to upset her friend.

Sean had already decided there was nothing here for him. He continued the standard questions, barely listening to the replies.

‘Things sometimes happen at work that stay at work,’ he suggested. ‘Things that never find their way home. You know what I mean?’ Everyone in the office did.

‘Not Louise,’ Gabby said firmly. ‘If anything like that had happened, we’d know about it for sure and I’d tell you now if it was. I wouldn’t risk lying to you.’

‘You’re her best friends, so I guess you would know,’ Sean encouraged.

‘We would,’ Gabby reaffirmed. ‘And there wasn’t. If Louise went out without John she would be out with us. We would’ve known. She loves John. All she ever talked about was John and how they were going to start a family soon.’

‘What about an unwanted admirer?’ Sean asked as a last procedural question. ‘Someone hanging around outside the office waiting for her? Someone other than the husband sending flowers, cards?’

The three colleagues looked blankly at each other before Gabby answered for them all.

‘No. Not that I ever saw and not that she ever mentioned.’

‘What about at home? Anyone making a nuisance of themselves?’

‘Same,’ said Gabby. ‘Nothing. If there had been, she would have reported it to the police.’

They were interrupted by Sean’s phone ringing on the borrowed desk. He glanced at the caller ID. It was Donnelly.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, snatching the phone up, turning his back on them for false privacy. ‘What’s happening?’

‘We’ve found the car,’ Donnelly told him.

‘Where?’

‘A place called Scrogginhall Wood, in Norman Park, Bromley.’

‘Bromley!’ Sean exclaimed. ‘That’s only a few miles from her home.’

‘You were expecting something different?’ Donnelly queried.

Sean realized he’d been thinking out loud. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘Not necessarily.’ He already had a strong feeling that whoever had taken Louise Russell was local. She hadn’t been snatched by some long-distance lorry driver or salesman on a trip down South. No, this one was from somewhere within the borders of this forgotten part of London. ‘What state’s the car in?’

‘Locked and secure, apparently. No signs of damage or a struggle. A routine uniform patrol found it in the car park while they were looking for local toe-rags who screw the cars there with annoying regularity.’

‘Are you already with the car?’ Sean asked.

‘No,’ said Donnelly. ‘I’m on my way. ETA about fifteen minutes.’

‘Fine. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. Travelling time from Forest Hill,’ Sean explained. ‘Make sure uniform preserve it and the car park for Forensics. And have the AA meet us there to get the thing open. I don’t want any over-keen constables smashing the windows in.’

‘It’ll be done,’ Donnelly assured him.

Sean hung up and turned to his waiting audience.

‘Have you found something?’ Montieth asked, his lips pale with dread.

‘We’ve found her car,’ Sean told them, seeing no point in keeping it a secret. Montieth’s eyes widened, while Gabby started to cry and Tina covered her mouth with both hands, as if pushing the scream of anxiety back inside her. ‘It’s just her car,’ Sean tried to reassure them. ‘There’s no sign of a struggle, nothing to suggest anything untoward has happened to her.’ Gathering up his belongings, he told them, ‘I need to get to where the car was found as quickly as I can, so I’m afraid I’ll have to cut our meeting short. Thanks for all your help. I promise I’ll be in touch if we find anything.’ During the long months without Sally at his side, covering for his abruptness, he’d had to learn to be a lot more subtle and polite with the public.